Universal Language
by A Midnight Dreary
Summary: -07movieverse- The Autobots and Earth music. part5: He couldn't sing and he was going to make sure everyone knew it. HIATUS for the moment
1. They Call it 'Jazz'

**A/N:** First piece of posted _Transformers_ fanfiction. 07 movieverse, pre-movie. Just one of those biting plot bunnies that can't be squashed. Enjoy.

_Transformers_ is property of HasTak and probably some other people too. If I owned_Transformers_, then Jazz would not have died in the movie and I'd be stinkin' rich.

* * *

**Universal Language**

Trapped in the _Ark_, locked in perpetual orbit on the dark side of the moon, getting caught up in a state commonly known as 'cabin fever', Jazz was bored. He was so bored he was certain that he was going to be feeling the melted bits of his CPU come oozing out his audials at any klick now. He had been lounging in the communications room for the past few joors, keeping one weary optics on the array, waiting to intercept any incoming messages; be they Autobot, Decepticon, or otherwise. He now knew the ceiling consisted of exactly 163 tiles, the floor had 88 tiles and the entire room was 10 by 12 and he could cross the floor in five large steps in either direction.

Now, whenever Jazz claims to be bored, it is usually a good idea to run for the hills, because he will do anything to relieve the boredom. But he couldn't even go bother his comrades. He was pretty sure Ratchet had gone and locked himself in the medbay with an arc welder handy and Jazz wasn't stupid enough to bother Ironhide while he was out on the shooting range. The thought of blowing things up just wasn't appealing enough for Jazz today. And bothering Optimus... Well, you just didn't do that. Spinning the chair around until he threw his gyros off had lost its appeal a while ago, when he'd nearly purged his tank onto the array and hadn't been able to walk a straight line for a full orn. And he had exhausted all the music files he had brought with him and was desperately craving something new; much like a thirsty man craves water.

Frag, he didn't even have Bumblebee to hang out with; not even to bounce random topics of conversation off with. The little yellow scout was down on the moon's planet, doing his job and diligently searching for clues to finding the AllSpark. Distance and the recently confirmed presence of Decepticon Science Officer Barricade kept the transmissions to the absolute minimum. Bumblebee had been planet-side for a few months now, six or seven, when one went by those time measurements. For Jazz and the others stuck up on the _Ark_, it had been no more than twelve orns in Cybertronian measurements.

This was going to drive him insane.

Bumblebee's second official report had come in -- in a timely manner about ten breems ago -- and Jazz had sent it off to Optimus accordingly. It was full of general things about the planet; like the climate, the state of the atmosphere, its geography, major landmarks of the landmass he was currently scouting out, blah, blah, blah... And things about the inhabitants; little bipedal, organic creatures who called themselves humans and were definitely at the top of the food chain. Included were all the things Bee had discovered about them so far. Jazz had skimmed the report without taking much in, but he thought these 'humans' sounded terribly boring.

Sure they had a good level of technology, but it was vastly inferior to their own. Sure they were smart enough, but they hadn't mastered interplanetary travel yet. They didn't live very long, it looked like, and going from the preliminary reports; it seemed that they were constantly trying to find new and more interesting ways to kill themselves.

Okay, maybe he was being a little biased to his own race, but Primus, he was not looking forward to making planet-fall.

The array beeped with an incoming message. Jazz swiveled the chair around back to the monitors. Ah, it was from Bee. Must be an addendum to his report. Jazz was about to send it in the right direction when he saw that it was actually for him.

Curious now, he sat up a little and opened the message. It was short. Very, very short. One sentence, four words.

"_They call it 'jazz'."_

And there were almost three dozen audio files attached to the message.

Curiosity piqued to new heights, Jazz sat straight up and scanned the audio files with sharp optics, trying to figure out what Bee had sent him before opening them. Individually, they were fairly small and he couldn't guess what could be possibly packed into files so small, but Bee had obviously taken the time to compile them together, so they must be important in some way. Shrugging, not seeing the harm, Jazz opened the first file.

* * *

As the first strains of an extremely high-pitched sound blasted throughout the steel corridors of the _Ark_, Ratchet upset his mug of energon, sending it crashing to the floor and spilling the thick pink liquid everywhere. He had nearly thrown the book-file he'd been engrossed in too before he realized that was not the alarm going off, as the sound was coming out of the comm. system and the lights were not flashing mauve.

The high-pitched wail degraded into something a little lower-key with the sound of drums beating out in the background, accompanied by certain pitches changing and swinging into other pitches in a very discordant, yet somehow organized manner.

Ratchet listened to this for a moment before it was clear that someone was **not** strangling a cyber-cat, as the sound had initially registered to him. It was music.

No music he had ever heard before, but music nonetheless.

It was music from the planet.

Ratchet just shuttered his optics and listened to the sounds emanating from the comm.

It didn't last a full breem and the medic was rather disappointed when it stopped. It was sort of... intoxicating. If that's what the humans called 'music'... Ratchet opened a comm line to the one place he could think, where that music had come from.

"Jazz?"

"_...Music-- They have music..._" was the semi-dazed response. Jazz sounded like he had been hit upside the head several times and was about to start crying. "_I've been sittin' here in this fragging silence for th' past twelve orns when I coulda tapped int' their satellites an' listened t' some music!_" His voice rose with ecstasy. "_Did ya hear that?! Did ya hear th' polyrhythm?! An' th' syncopation?! An' th' swing notes! They have fraggin' __**swing notes**__! There were flattened thirds--! An'-- fraggin' flattened fifths!..._" He got the dazed tone to his voice again."_It was so beautiful... An' they call it 'jazz music'..._"

Ratchet found himself smirking at that.

"It's very fitting, I think." he commented. "Discordant and organized all at once."

"_Yeah..._" Jazz agreed vaguely, evidently unaware of the subtle insult. Then he snapped out of that daze. "_Sorry 'bout that._" He added quickly. "_Uh... I'll keep it down--_"

"Actually," Ratchet interrupted. "Is there anymore of that?"

"­_Wha-- Oh! Yeah, there might! Bee sent up 'bout three dozen files! Do-- Do ya want me t' play 'em all?_"

"Please. It's been much to quiet around here lately." Ratchet said, retrieving his mug off the floor.

"_I hear that!_"

A new sound filtered through the comm. system. It wasn't the straining high-pitches he had heard earlier. The drums were more obvious now, pounding out like a fuel pump beat, accompanied by an instrument that could've been a string instrument, lower bass tones strumming alongside the drums in perfect rhythm, metallic clashes every four beats. It was fast, much faster than Cybertronian music; fitted into the times measurements of this planet.

When it came right down to it, Ratchet knew as much about music as Jazz did about being a medic; as much as Ironhide knew about leading an army; as much as Optimus did about being a spy. But in a rare moment -- moments that were often too far and between -- up in the _Ark_, locked in perpetual orbit around the moon and beginning to suffer from cabin fever, the four of them understood each other completely.

Let no one ever say that music isn't a universal language.


	2. Mental Notes

**A/N: **By the demand of my muses, I have decided to carry on with this (damn them and their plot-bunny-breeding hobbies). But I'm still at a loss. Just what sort of music would Ironhide like? Would Bee be like Jazz and just like everything? Or rather, what would he **dislike**? What about the **other** Autobots?

Yes, there is a specific piece of music I talk about and I was even listening to it as I was typing this, but I don't know its name. However, it can be heard in the_Doctor Who_ episode "The Impossible Planet". That's about all I can tell you.

**Disclaimer**_Transformers_ property of HasTak and some other companies.

* * *

**Mental Notes**

Roaring down the road as fast as it would allow, Optimus was angry.

When Optimus is angry, it's normally a really, **really** good idea to run for the hills and hermit away there for a long time. Because you do **not** want to be on the wrong side of that anger.

Woe betide the life-forms that incites that anger.

_Must not kill Sector Seven. Must __**hurt**__ badly, but must not kill. Killing is tempting... __**Very**__ tempting... But then I'd be no better than Megatron..._

As if kidnapping the children hadn't been enough, S7 had nabbed Bumblebee as well. For what reasons, Optimus could not fathom, but he could guess that none of those reasons were very good at all. If the humans' movies about alien invasions and the related were anything to go by... Well, some of those movies had scared the bolts out of Ironhide and it was beyond difficult to rattle the Weapons Specialist.

Optimus did not want to see anything bad happen to Bumblebee. Not to the last youngling.

He was still as angry as Pit, though.

He had to calm down or he wasn't going to be able to think properly. He had this feeling that there was going to be a battle or something sooner, rather than later, and it would not do to run into it all riled up like this. No, battle was best approached with a cool processor.

His usual calming method wasn't going to work on the fly; he usually had to be stationary. But music could have interesting effects on the thought processes. He immediately started sifting through the airwaves, looking for something calm and relatively soothing.

Jazz wasn't helping. He had something loud and angry blaring over his speakers. Since he was directly in front, Optimus was having a difficult time blocking it out. Not that he was going to tell Jazz to cut it out. The saboteur had become very attached to Earth culture; which was amusing when one knew of his initial misgivings about such a young species.

Ignoring the angry music, Optimus continued his search through the airwaves and kept finding a whole lot of scrap. Sweet Primus, what possessed the humans to call some of that slag "music"? A few things caught his attention, but wasn't able to hold it long enough, so he kept searching.

And then he found it.

It was quiet and oddly bouncy and as he listened, it slowly got louder. It brought to mind a city getting ready to start the day. It a little bustling here and there, but not quite up to speed yet, like it was still morning. The melody was repeating and somehow catchy. Flutes and marimbas seemed to be the most prominent instruments before a clarinet took over. Or was that an oboe? He couldn't tell.

Needless to say, the tone contrasted sharply with the furious pace everything else was moving at.

Optimus liked it.

As the snare drums began to sound softly in the background behind the flute, which had retaken center stage, he found himself calming. Suddenly, the road ahead seemed a little shorter. The Hoover Dam suddenly seemed closer. Jazz's angry music was suddenly much easier to ignore. And the possible outcome to all this suddenly seemed to be that much more positive.

If the effect was going to be like this every time, Optimus made a mental note to listen to classical music more often.


	3. More Bass

**A/N:** Hmm, this idea just seemed to work better this way. In other news... OmigodwhathaveIdone?

Translation: While you're here, go check out my new _Transformers_ story, **'Til All Are One**. I've only recently posted it. Go read! Go read! (not that I'm begging...)

**Disclaimer**_ Transformers_ property of HasTak and some other companies.

* * *

**More Bass**

The day started off with a bang.

Literally.

Ratchet groaned and flung his arms over his head. According to his chronometer, he'd gotten into recharge only three hours ago, it was the ass-crack of dawn and Wheeljack was already blowing himself up.

Figures.

The medic oozed out of the bunk sluggishly, barely aware of where he was supposed to be going, much less where the door was. Only three hours of recharge a

after a straight week of almost none at all. He wobbled on his feet, ran into the wall and bounced off, his fingers fumbling with the touch-pad that opened the door and stumbled into the corridor. His bleary vision picked up a light haze of smoke drifting through the hall. This was what he got for sharing a connecting corridor to Wheeljack's lab.

_Damn slagger... getting me out of bed at this time..._

A few minutes later -- streak marks left behind on the wall from where he'd been leaning -- Ratchet arrived at the laboratory and was not surprised to find most of it covered in dark gray soot and that a few of the lights had been taken out. He looked around and didn't see Wheeljack anywhere. There was a pile of machinery covered in the dark gray soot there and a second pile over there was smoking and sparking and also covered in dark gray soot.

Ratchet frowned. "Wheeljack?"

"Yes?"

The first pile of soot-covered machinery turned towards him, two vocal resonators flashing a muted blue.

"What did you do?"

"Oh, this!" The pile of machinery now positively identified as Wheeljack jumped to its feet, walking over to the smoking, sparking pile. "I accidentally crossed two wires with the power packs and the whole thing backfired in a chain reaction and took out all the others. I didn't think it was going to have that much of reaction, honestly. Maybe a little one. At least it didn't throw me through the wall like last time--"

"Last time?!" Ratchet's temper, now worse due to his fatigue, flared. "There was a last time?!"

"Yeah... Right there." The inventor pointed to the Wheeljack-shaped hole in the wall the lab shared with the medbay.

Ratchet looked at the hole and then back at Wheeljack, his glare sharpening to a laser-like intensity. To his credit, Wheeljack didn't cringe or cower. He was probably the only mech that could take an evil-Ratchet glare at full force.

"Mind you, the power packs had a much stronger voltage earlier. I had to take them down a notch; the explosion was much bigger. Speaking of that, could you take a look at my hand?" Wheeljack waved the aforementioned hand in the medic's face. "It's sort of numb. I'm not exactly sure what happened to it, but when the power packs blew the first time, my hand was sort of right on them--"

"Wheeljack." Ratchet interrupted him, pushing the hand away. "What in the name of Primus were you doing with--" He glanced at the sparking machinery and frowned. "Whatever those were previously."

"Speakers."

"Speakers?..."

"Jazz got them. He wanted more bass."

"So he brought them to you."

"Yep."

Ratchet let out an exasperated sigh and made a mental note to give Jazz a brand-new dent to go with the one from the other day.

"I think I've almost got it too." Wheeljack said cheerfully, turning his attention away from Ratchet -- which is something you don't do when the medic was in a mood -- and bending over the sad, sorry pile of speakers. "He wants to install a new sound system and these speakers are just about the right size. They should fit well with the rest of the _Ark_'s systems, given the level of human technology and the age of the _Ark_. The only problem is I think glitch-mice chewed through most of the wiring _**years**_ back, so w

we're gonna have to run some new wire -- well, a lot, really -- but that shouldn't--"

**Bam!**

Ratchet clocked him over the head with a wrench.

"Why must you mess with everything that comes your way?!" he snapped, taking another swing. "Why can't you do something that doesn't involve something getting blown up?! And why must I feel obliged to repair you every time you blow yourself up?!"

Wheeljack shrugged. It wasn't like he did it on purpose.

A little later in the day when the sun was at a reasonable height in the sky, Jazz came running up to him, brandishing a music disk.

"Here, Ratch was complainin'." he said, by way of explanation.

"About what?" Wheeljack asked. Had the medic finally cracked?

"Not sure, but th' gist of it was 'Find Wheeljack some music'. Dunno what th' slag that's 'bout." Jazz shrugged and handed him the disk. "So I downloaded this for ya. It's th' 1812 Overture. Wit' cannon percussion."

Wheeljack's optics lit up.

"Cannons, you say?"


	4. Little Secret

**A/N:** Here we are! Finally! This one was a long time in coming. I waited so long because I wanted to get Chapter 14 of **'Til All Are One **out first. So, if you're just now joining me and haven't the faintest clue what I'm on about, this installment does contain minor spoiler-age for Chapter 14. Okay, maybe a bit more than minor, but if spoilers don't bother you, read on!

By the way, I am still taking music suggestions and I can do characters more than once. But a little note regarding music. I was in elementary school when boy bands were the new fad and Celine Dion had released the most popular song of the year that I hate with a passion because I heard it _every, single, fragging __**morning**_. If you're recommending the less well-known bands of the 80s or maybe the 70s, I can guarantee that I will have _no flipping clue_ what you're talking about. I was born two years AFTER the '86 _Transformers_ movie, if that puts things into perspective. Music genres will work better, but no really specific band names, please.

Music for the Seekers?

And trust me, this one works somehow.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

Little Secret

Prowl didn't understand. He did his job to satisfaction, Optimus never complained about his work and he helped keep the _Ark_ running at peak efficiency, even for its age. Honestly, one couldn't ask for anything more.

So why, _why_ couldn't he get even five minutes alone with his favorite genre of Earth music?

It seemed that every time he sat down to enjoy a book-file that Optimus had recommended to him and the music simultaneously, Jazz came around seconds later, knocking around his door and asking if he had happened to have seen something lately; like the floor buffer, because the dust and cobwebs two levels down were practically declaring themselves their own country. Or Ratchet was buzzing on his comm to inform him that Sunstreaker had done something stupid to himself again and that he might want to rework the duty roster (or the duty **rooster** as he sometimes found it the next morning).

Something was always interrupting him.

This time, it was Wheeljack.

"See, the thing is, Jazz wants a new sound system but more half the wires are rusted through. Now, I think copper wiring will substitute pretty good, but I'd really like to get my hands on some insulated wiring for Teletraan -- did I mention that computer is so outdated, it's not even funny?-- and maybe some new piping for the wash-racks. The pipes are leaking pretty badly on all eight residence levels and we've got some water/solvent damage all over the place. Oh and Ironhide has started to complain that the ceiling in his quarters are dripping. The only wash-racks that are even functioning are in the medbay and Ratchet doesn't want anyone stomping through his territory 'cause of the Seekers, y'know. I don't think he really gives a slag about how bad we look, but seriously, if I rust an arm off 'cause I can't clean the gunk out of my joints, I am so sending Sunstreaker after him. Speaking of whom, could you give him something to do?"

Wheeljack finished his spiel and looked at Prowl expectantly.

"Do I look like a supply officer?" the SIC growled, feeling little bits of his rarely seen temper snap off. "What do you want from me!?"

"Do you-- do you have the inventory lists?" Wheeljack asked, sensing said temper rising.

"It's in my office! Now get out of my quarters!" Prowl just managed to refrain from shaking a fist. Wheeljack vacated the immediate premises and the SIC launched himself off his bunk and locked the door, cursing the fact that the ­_Ark_ was so old that it didn't have access codes to officers' quarters. Just touch-pads. The only thing Prowl could do was lock the door.

Oh, that was going to change. And soon.

Prowl settled himself on his bunk and opened the book-file, reaching to turn on the music.

"Prowl!" Ratchet was banging on his door and the SIC shuddered. So close...

"What?!" he snapped back in a tone that normally didn't come from him.

"I need the medical supply lists! I'm missing a slag-load of stuff!"

"They're in my office!"

Silence reigned for a second or two and Prowl realized that Ratchet hadn't gone away yet.

"Do you need anything else?"

"Yes! Find something for Sunstreaker to do! And keep Ironhide away from the medbay! I practically trip over him every time I walk out!"

Prowl groaned. It didn't matter what tasks he assigned to the Weapons Specialist, Ironhide had appointed himself to sentry duty outside the medbay and nothing could be done to get him away.

Prowl didn't want to deal with this. It had been another long day and he wanted to unwind before slipping into recharge.

It was a full minute of sitting there and groaning before the tactician realized that Ratchet had gone away and Prowl pounced on the music before anyone could come and bother him. The music that filled the room was probably the last thing anyone would think the SIC would listen to, but Prowl had discovered that he had an instant liking for opera music.

The very next morning, Prowl found the entire track for _The Phantom of the Opera_ and _Madam Butterfly_, among other classic operas, lying on his desk in disk-form. He subspaced them quietly and reminded himself to thank Jazz for the little gift.


	5. Being Stupid

**A/N:** My apologies for all who were expecting/hoping to see Chpt 16 of TAAO. Chpt 16 (the revised version anyways) currently sits in the clutches of my beta (Malachite Circle) so please direct all angry mail to her. (Yes, I'm selling you out! That's what you get!) Therefore, I present you with the next installment of _Universal Language_.

I would like to thank AKAArzosah for the suggestion that led to the formation of this little fic-let. It works _amazingly_ well. I'd go ahead and tell you what it is, but I think it'll be very obvious very shortly.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me. I also don't own the lyris used here.

* * *

Being Stupid

Sideswipe could modulate his vocalizer all he wanted, but it would never change the fact that his voice simply didn't lend itself to singing.

Prowl was beginning to come to the conclusion that he should ban the red twin from singing, period.

Since his arrival to Earth, Sideswipe was practically memorized the Internet and used it to his full advantage. Just recently, he had taken to singing in the wash-racks, whether he was in there to clean up or not. With the _Ark_ having large, spacious corridors like it did, sound had a tendency to travel very, very far. Thusly, if Ironhide happened to be raising Pit near the entrance, there was a good chance that his voice would be heard clear across the expanse of the ship. Not words, necessarily, but everyone would know if the Weapons Specialist was yelling again.

The wash-racks had quite a number of vents leading off them to carry away the steam and those vents just so happened to be great conductors of sound. Unfortunately, Sideswipe had discovered this and then human music and that's where the trouble had started.

"_Put down your chainsaw and listen to me._

_It's time for us to join in the fight._

_It's time to let your babies grow up to be cowboys._

_It's time to let the bedbugs bite._"

Forced to listen to it, it was agony for the others.

"What's that one phrase the humans use for bad singers?"

"Strangling a cat?"

"Yeah, that's it..."

Offlining their audials had turned out to be pointless. Somehow, they could still hear Sideswipe's voice, belting out off-note after off-note with a sort of wicked glee. He knew they were suffering from his inability to sing. Jazz was about ready to rip the red twin a new one for so horribly mangling music and everyone else was more than willing to pin Sideswipe down so Jazz could do so.

"_You better put all your eggs in one basket._

_You better count your chickens before they hatch._

_You better sell some wine before it's/its time._

_You better find yourself an itch to scratch._"

"Does anyone have a chainsaw?" Sunstreaker asked, unable to take his brother's atrocious singing for much longer. "I'm gonna take his head off."

"If you can find one, I'll teleport you over there." Skywarp offered with a pained look on his face. He didn't even sing to torture people.

"_You better squeeze all the Charmin you can, while Mr. Wimpole's not around._

_Stick your head in the microwave and get yourself a tan._"

The entire common room shuddered as Sideswipe hit an unnecessarily high note and cackled a few times before carrying on with the next verse. The chainsaw idea was becoming more appealing by the second.

"_Talk with your mouth full._

_Bite the hand that feeds you._

_Bite on more than you chew._

_What can you do._

_Dare to be stupid!_"

Sunstreaker surged to his feet with an angry roar and stalked for the door. Skywarp leapt over the back of the couch and followed.

"Let's go!"

"Okay, but it's gonna mess up your gyros big time."

"Doesn't matter! If I can just vomit on him--!"

There was a soft pop and then not a few seconds later, the torturous singing ceased and very faintly, they heard Sideswipe's drifting through the vents.

"_Oh, hey guys! What's up? Sunny-- What is that and what are you doing with it? Sunny-- Su--_"

A loud roar of rage drowned out the rest of the evil red twin's voice and Sideswipe let out a ridiculously high-pitched scream. This was quickly followed by a number of bangs and yelps and the sound of metal scraping and limbs being twisted into positions they were not supposed to be twisted in to. And then blissful silence fell over the rec room, much to the relief of everyone's audials.

"One week in the brig, vocalizer disabled." Optimus announced to Prowl and Ratchet, both of who were already heading for the door.

"Yessir." Ratchet said, quite relieved.

"And make sure he's forced to listen to something painful."

"Yes sir." The grin that crossed Prowl's face was particularly evil.

And no one felt sorry for Sideswipe.


End file.
